


We Can Do Better

by out_there



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, SHIELD Husbands, Tony Stark for President
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-17 18:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "Does Stark seem like most nominees to you?" Coulson replies. He doesn't sound fond; he sounds exhausted."Makes your job harder, I guess."Coulson pulls off his sunglasses and rubs at his face. "I knew this wouldn't be an easy job when I took it," he says, looking at Clint with shockingly blue eyes.Clint's breath catches but he forces himself to take another steady inhale because: a) he's working here, and b) he doesn't have time for an annoying crush, and c) hooking up on the campaign trail is disastrous three times out of four. (The fourth time was Nat and that was awesome, and she's still his best friend even if she's currently over in war zones reporting atrocities.)





	We Can Do Better

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Informal Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943066) by [mrwonderwoman (saete)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saete/pseuds/mrwonderwoman). 

> Written for the 2019 ClintCoulson Remix. Remixing mrwonderwoman's [Informal Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943066) because I do love a political AU. Thanks so much to Celli for cheerleading, and to Misbegotten for betaing (and filling in some big gaps in my political knowledge).

Clint remembers the jokes when Tony Stark announced that he was running for President. Every late night host had a riff on the theme -- Clint's favorite was that someone needed to tell Stark that economic models didn't mean the West Wing was full of financially savvy supermodels. There were still a lot of jokes until the first debate happened, until Senator Wiseman accused Stark of ignoring the lack of rural employment and Stark turned around and said, "And what do you suggest I do about it?"

"It's companies like yours, Mr Stark, that are moving manufacturing jobs out of the country. That are leaving entire areas economically depressed when the main source of employment disappears."

"Which areas?"

The Senator frowned at Stark's question. "Excuse me?"

"You're throwing this around as a fact, so you must have done some research, right? So which areas, which states?" Stark pulled out his phone, in the middle of a televised debate, and started typing, still talking. "Because you're right -- we have been moving jobs to the cheapest labor supply. Stark Industries is expanding the energy production business and we know there's a need for two new factories, maybe three, and if we know the areas where this employment will make the biggest difference, maybe we need to consider that."

"This isn't a problem you can throw money at and solve, Mr Stark. A factory that can't run profitably, that will only close down in a year--"

"Who says I won't run it profitably? Not initially, sure, we'll need some extra capital to get it up and running but, wait," Stark said and dialed the phone. On national TV, he held a hand up to stop the Senator and then lifted his phone to his ear. "Yeah, Pepper, remind me -- what? No, not yet. I'm still at the thing. Yeah, turn on your TV," he said and then waved down the camera with a cheeky smile that had been seen on hundreds of tabloid covers, "we need to review the factory placement. We can use the advertising budget to set it up. It's not like my name is unknown. Yeah, no, okay, Pep, I've gotta go now."

Then he slid the phone into his pocket and turned to Wiseman behind his little podium. "If you send me that research, I will do something about it."

Clint remembers thinking it was a joke. That Stark was loud and rude and had no idea how this worked. That he'd barely make it to the polls before Washington ate him alive.

Then a week later, Stark Industries announced construction of three new factories in Alabama, North Dakota and Idaho, in places surrounded by ghost towns of people who couldn't afford to move anywhere better. The type of towns where Main St was mostly "For Lease" signs stuck over empty windows.

That was the first time Clint thought Stark might be a serious contender.

***

Clint's had enough by-lines on his resume that he could've got out of covering the campaign. His last big story was an expose on contractors bribing government employees, and he could have leveraged that to stay home and let some new kid do the boring stuff. But the sad truth is that after a scoop like that, it's going to take a while before people will talk candidly to him again. In some ways, Washington is a small town and if Clint's going to be stuck turning his wheels and getting nowhere, he might as well see the country too.

Political campaigns are for die-hard politicos and newbie reporters. It's weeks spent in cramped bus seats with the same twenty people, stopping at photo op after photo op. It's sharing cheap motel rooms and hearing the same campaign promises over and over.

Except Stark doesn't make the same speech with a few different names thrown in. Stark generally says a few welcoming sentences and throws the floor open to questions. And then he answers them. A sharp quip if it's something from the tabloids, a joke about Pepper Potts if it's something related to Stark Industries, but any genuine political question gets an answer. Even if he has to stop and think about it for a few minutes and check his phone.

"Okay, here's the thing about gun control," Stark says in the middle of Arkansas where people take their guns seriously. "You look at the stats, at the death toll and you're as likely to die from a gun as you are from a car crash. Cars are serious weapons and maybe guns need to be treated the same way. We don't let anyone buy a car and drive it down the street. We say you've got to have a license, you've got to prove to me that someone has taught you how to safely use this thing."

There's a soft round of applause for that statement. When Clint looks around at the crowd, there's a lot of flannel and baseball caps, the type of people you expect to have a gun rack on their truck. But they're listening.

"Now, I live in Malibu so I know traffic. You haven't lived in LA until you've spent three hours hating the car in front of you," Stark says, with an angry wave of his hand, miming a furious driver. The audience laughs. "This is why there are rules against driving tanks on freeways. You want to drive a car, fine, but you need skills and you need to drive something that's safe for the rest of us. Guns should be the same. Nobody needs a semi-automatic to hunt deer. And nobody who drives a car should point at guns and say this is the thing that'll kill you."

Nobody should be able to talk about gun control to this crowd and get them to listen and mumble in agreement. But Tony Stark does it with a grin and a thumbs up to the crowd. "Okay, next question?"

***

Campaigns have a rhythm to them. They start slow and boring, lots of negotiating and deals and dull speeches until each party has a nominee. Then there's a lot of advertising and a lot of travelling, a lot of unimportant promises until voting date gets closer. A lot of dull stories filed by newbies in their twenties, all certain they'll one day win a Pulitzer. Then, six weeks out, the seasoned reporters will arrive in droves and start trying to sway the populace with the truth.

Stark doesn't follow that script at all. He doesn't advertise. He pledges to put that money into using local labor to build his new factories, to encourage job growth before the SI factories even open, and he doesn't run a single ad.

He doesn't need to, not with the amount of media attention he gets. Every public appearance is off-script and Stark can state an opinion on everything from dairy subsidies and school lunches to national defense and interest rates. It might not be interesting enough to publish, but it's enough to interest the political reporters who understand how rare this is. Day by day, the number of seasoned reporters following the campaign grows. Clint's not the only guy on the far side of thirty sitting in the bus any more.

They end up getting a bigger bus to follow Stark. And then it's a bus and a van, and they still run out of seats. Luckily, Clint finds himself a ride with the extra security guys in their black SUV. 

"Thanks for the lift, guys. Really," Clint says to Peterson, Jones and… damn it. Two out of three ain't bad, especially when they're all in charcoal suits and aviator shades. "Sorry, man, didn't catch your name."

"Coulson," the guy beside him says. "Stark would have let you ride in his bus if you asked."

Clint's curious about the AC/DC he's heard coming from Stark's massive coach, but there's a reason the press are kept in their own bus. "Yeah, most nominees don't want the press that close."

"Does Stark seem like most nominees to you?" Coulson replies. He doesn't sound fond; he sounds exhausted.

"Makes your job harder, I guess."

Coulson pulls off his sunglasses and rubs at his face. "I knew this wouldn't be an easy job when I took it," he says, looking at Clint with shockingly blue eyes.

Clint's breath catches but he forces himself to take another steady inhale because: a) he's working here, and b) he doesn't have time for an annoying crush, and c) hooking up on the campaign trail is disastrous three times out of four. (The fourth time was Nat and that was awesome, and she's still his best friend even if she's currently over in war zones reporting atrocities.) Even if the law of the averages says that Clint's probably due for another hook-up that ends surprisingly well… But it's still a bad idea and Clint's smart enough not to make the same mistake over and over. Really.

"I'm Clint," Clint says and holds his hand out across the backseat. Coulson gives it a shake and then slides down in his seat, resting his head and closing his eyes.

***

Over the next two weeks, Clint learns a few things about Coulson. His first name is Phil. He used to be an Army Ranger, explaining his habit of standing at parade rest when he's not reviewing plans on his StarkPad or his laptop. He likes talking to Clint, judging by the way he saves a seat for Clint in the big black security SUV. When the other reporters are climbing into the bus, it's nice to hear Coulson's no-nonsense tone call out, "Barton, we leave in five."

Coulson usually sleeps or works while they drive, but on a slow afternoon in Minnesota, he talks about growing up in Illinois, in a little town like the ones they're driving through. He talks about climbing the water tower at eleven to prove he could, and the decrepit drive-in that was only used by teens making out.

Clint doesn't usually talk about his childhood. There's a common reaction to the whole alcoholic parents, orphan and growing up in foster care story, and making other people feel bad for him has never made Clint feel better. But Coulson turns those blue eyes on him and says, "What about you? What were the make out spots where you grew up?"

"I don't know. School bleachers, maybe? Is that too much of a cliche?"

"Not at all." Coulson smiles at him, eyes crinkled in the corner. Clint grins back, thinking it'd be easier to avoid inappropriate crushes if Coulson didn't look so hot when he smiled.

Clint nearly suggests a backseat as the best make out spot, but Petersen and Jones are sitting upfront. Instead he says, "So, how small is your hometown? Are we talking cow tipping?"

"Complete with drinking in paddocks and joyriding on tractors," Coulson says, so deadpan that Clint has no idea if he's telling the truth.

***

In Arizona, someone asks Stark about sex education in schools. There's a collective gasp from the press, everyone grabbing pens and carefully recording whatever comes out of Tony Stark's mouth.

"We should have it. Everyone should have it. I mean, what's the point of sex if you're doing it badly?" Stark quips, reaching for a glass of water. Some of the newer reporters on the campaign look disappointed, but they clearly haven't learned to recognize Stark stalling. 

Sure enough, Stark puts down the glass and says, "But seriously, I am for it. If you think abstinence is a deterrent in a society with porn on smartphones and tweens idolizing barely dressed pop stars, you're not paying attention. When I was a kid, it was a friend stealing his dad's dirty magazines. Now, it's sexting and revenge porn and kids are curious. Teens are trying to figure this stuff out, what it means to fall in love, to be attracted to someone, and the least we can do is give them some technical knowledge. This is how sex works and this is what your body does. These are the consequences. The most adult thing you can do is make a choice knowing the consequences.

"It took me until 34 to figure that out," Stark says, shrugs and giving the crowd a photogenic smile, "but we've got some smart kids. If we give them the tools to navigate the world, they could work it out by, like, 25."

***

That night, there's a group of them at the bar. This is what happens when the largest motel in town is opposite a bar and everyone's been stuck with the same people for the last four weeks. Copious drinking followed by everyone staggering back to their rooms -- or someone else's room. This is the sort of night that easily ends in shared beds.

Clint scans the crowd as he walks in. It's mostly the younger reporters, twenty-somethings that look at him with awe or dismissive confusion, and make Clint feel old either way. Disappointingly, he can't see any of the security guys here. They're probably not allowed to work with hangovers, Clint tells himself and elbows his way to the bar for a beer. Then he spots a familiar pair of shoulders hunched over a barstool.

"Hey," Clint says to get Coulson's attention and Coulson smiles over at him. It's a Tuesday night and the place has been taken over by campaigners and press, and yet the stool beside Coulson is empty. Clint sits down and orders a beer.

"No talking about the campaign," Coulson says before Clint can think of anything safely work-related to talk about.

Clint grins. "What's the point of sex if you're doing it badly?" 

Coulson downs his whiskey in two swallows, and then holds some bills out for another one. "No shop talk."

"Then what are we going to talk about? Or should we sit in silence and drink like manly men?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow at him and takes a sip. It's such an obvious challenge. He might as well have double dog dared Clint to be quiet.

Clint nods and holds Coulson's gaze, and takes a mouthful of his beer. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't drink it especially fast, either. Takes nice steady sips, lets Coulson watch him, sees the way Coulson's eyes flick down to Clint's throat when he swallows.

There's a tiny hint of a smile on Coulson's lips. Clint grins back. It's a silly game but he has Coulson's full attention. When Coulson finishes his drink, he says, "What's your opinion on bad decisions?"

"Life's too short to only make the smart choices." Clint finishes the last of his beer and pushes the glass away. "Sometimes it's the mistakes that lead you where you need to go."

Coulson nods at that. Then he stands up and says, "Come with me."

Clint follows him out to a backroom, and then through a door marked 'Staff Only' and suddenly they're alone in an alley, brick walls and faint reflection of street lights.

"This is a bad idea," Coulson says, stepping forward and wrapping a hand around Clint's arm. Clint leans forward, meets him halfway and tastes the whiskey still on Coulson's lips.

Clint's kind of expecting a few shuffling steps backwards, to be pressed against the wall, but Coulson only pulls him closer. Until they're chest to chest, hips pressed against each other.

Coulson breaks the kiss to say, "It can't go further than this. This is a bad idea," and then he's kissing Clint again, tongue sliding against Clint's and hands wrapped around Clint's back.

"We won't," Clint says breathlessly, stealing another kiss, "be the only ones."

"What?" It's murmured against Clint's neck, followed by a warm swipe of tongue that makes Clint shiver.

"Tonight. We won't be the only ones." There are strong hands groping his ass, and Clint loses his train of thought for a minute. "Hooking up. It won't be a big deal."

"I can't," Coulson says urgently, and Clint hopes it's a job security thing, an institutional homophobia in the secret services. He really hopes it's not a married thing, that Coulson doesn't have someone waiting for him at home. Clint hasn't noticed a wedding ring so he's going to ignore that possibility for the moment. 

"So, what? You brought me out here to make out?"

"I needed to kiss you," Coulson says, staring right at him. Fuck.

"Making out it is," Clint agrees, and he has no idea how long they stand in that alley, kissing and holding each other tight. Until Clint's lips are sensitized and tingling. Until he's so hard that he's rocking his hips in hopeless little circles, groaning at the feel of Coulson's hard cock. Until there's a crash and a door slamming open further down the alley, and Coulson's suddenly two foot away.

He's flushed and his lips are red, and there's a dangerous glitter to his eyes. "Fuck, Clint," he says, soft and raw and then he closes his eyes. Shakes his head and says, "I'm sorry. This can't be more. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Clint says, voice rougher than it should be. "Hottest makeout session since high school. Don't apologize."

***

The next morning, the van gets replaced with a second bus for the press. It feels like a sign from the cosmos, but it's a sign Coulson ignores. He strides out of the motel room, plain grey suit and shades already on, and says, "Barton, we leave in five."

Clint looks around the busy parking lot, the milling groups of reporters waiting to get on the buses, and then gets in the SUV. There's a curious glance or two in his direction, but most of the reporters are too busy claiming seats to pay Clint any attention. 

"You know there's space on the buses now," Clint says because he can never leave a good thing well enough alone.

Coulson's already tapping on his StarkPad but he pauses to look up at Clint. For a moment, Clint remembers the groan he made when Clint nibbled his lower lip. He can feel the ghost of Coulson's fingers digging into his shoulders. "You can always join them at the next stop," Coulson says, "if you'd rather spend the day surrounded by that noise."

He has a point. Forty bored journalists driving for hours between speeches can get loud. Clint usually puts headphones on and pretends to be asleep. Clint doesn't say that. He stretches his arms across the back of the seat rest and lets his legs spread wider. "I'm happy with privacy and comfort," Clint says and Jones snorts from the driver's seat.

"You're only here because Jones thinks you're funny," Coulson replies, looking back at his tablet. "I'm not giving you special treatment."

***

It's embarrassing that it takes, like, three days for the special treatment thing to make sense. It's really embarrassing that Clint's been following the campaign for weeks and he's as confused as the rest of them when Coulson steps out one morning to holler at the pack of reporters.

Usually, Steve Rogers deals with the press. He's friendly and good natured, and one of the most attractive people Clint's ever seen in real life, so he's the perfect fit for keeping the reporters in line. He'll smile and remember everyone's names, and shut down any inappropriate interview questions like a semi hitting a concrete barrier. But yesterday he could barely breathe, and today all 6'4" of him is bedridden with a chesty cough Clint could hear through the motel walls last night.

Coulson says, "I know you usually deal with Steve. Today, you have me. You each have a copy of the itinerary and our six stops today. You know the drill. Get out, take notes, and Stark will answer any reasonable questions at the press briefing after lunch."

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees a redhead raise her hand and then decide to call out. "Um, why do we have you?" 

"Because Steve Rogers is susceptible to bronchitis," Coulson replies.

"Yes, but--" the redhead says as someone else calls out, "Who are you?"

"Phil Coulson," Coulson says slowly, like he's talking to a bunch of idiots. "Campaign manager."

There's a low murmur through the mob. Clearly, Clint wasn't the only one to see the suits and ex-military bearing and assume Coulson was security. It explains why Coulson's constantly on his tablet while the other security guys take turns driving, staring out at the road or travelling in Stark's massive tour bus.

"Any other questions?" Coulson asks, in a tone that suggests asking stupid questions might be a hanging offense. He's met by silence. "Good. Everyone on the buses so we can go visit a dairy farm."

This time, when Clint gets in the back of the big SUV, he gets some speculative glances from the other reporters. He considers flipping them off, but Nat would scowl at him if he did. He'll be sharing motel rooms and breakfast buffets with these people for another two months; maybe he could try not to get them offside. Yet.

"You realise no one knew you were the campaign manager, right? It's not even listed on any of Stark's official staffing reports."

"I'm listed," Coulson replies.

"As a consultant. That's usually security, and you know it."

"I am consulting with Stark on how to win. Which gets harder every time he opens his mouth and gives an honest opinion."

"But you let everyone think you were security," Clint points out because Coulson's been complicit in the assumption. "What sort of campaign manager doesn't travel with the candidate?"

Coulson gives him a considering look. "On the record?"

This is the opportunity for special treatment. This is Clint's chance to get a few exclusive quotes and put together a quick profile on Stark's previously unknown campaign manager. There are two buses full of reporters who'd do exactly that. Clint shrugs. "Off the record."

"Pepper Potts was supposed to run his campaign, but the board of directors at Stark Industries got nervous at the idea of losing their CEO and figurehead-slash-chairman at the same time. I'm doing this as a favor to her." Coulson pulls the tablet out of his bag and turns it on, tapping the side of the screen as he waits for it to load. "I agreed to help him win. I didn't agree to spend 15 hours a day with him."

"That's the only reason?" It could be but Coulson doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd do things based on a whim or a personal dislike.

"Stark pays more attention to email and I have more patience with him when I don't have to listen to his choice of music," Coulson says, tapping on the screen and pausing before he adds, "And it gave me a chance to get to know the reporters before they were paying much attention to me."

Clint grins. "Picked your favorites?"

"I can't play favorites." Coulson glances over, blue eyes apologetic. Clint remembers him saying 'I can't' in that alley, earnest and turned on and regretful all at once.

"But, you know, if you had a favorite reporter…" Clint teases, and Jones snorts from the front seat. "It'd be me, right?"

"It would be Haywood," Coulson replies seriously. "You might be Jones' favorite, if that makes you feel better."

Clint leans forward, pushing his way between the front seats. "What about you, Petersen? Am I your favorite?"

"I don't have a favorite reporter," Petersen says, not looking away from the road. "Same as I don't have a favorite flu strain."

"Harsh, man," Clint says, flopping dramatically into the backseat, hand to his wounded heart.

Coulson keeps his eyes on the tablet in his lap, but there's a hint of a smile.

***

Coulson's trick of standing quietly in the shadows doesn't work after that. Clint's always noticed him standing to the side of the room while Stark holds the spotlight, but now the rest of the press watches Coulson too. When Stark states a clear opinion on something, there's a dozen eyes flicking to Coulson to look for his reaction. Coulson's expression remains bland and unconcerned even when Stark gets distracted for twenty minutes discussing the technological limitations of a local school. (It started as a question of curriculum funding and somehow devolved into the state of their computer labs.)

Before, most of the reporters would only nod in acknowledgement; now those same reporters stop to talk to Coulson in the mornings, to try to chat over coffee about the day's agenda. Coulson usually gives them a blank stare and says Rogers can answer those questions, and keeps staring until they leave.

Not that Clint's jealous or anything. Maybe a little. Maybe he liked it when he was the only one hanging around Coulson and the security guys. At least Clint's the only one who gets to ride in the SUV.

Shifting on the backseat, Clint turns away from the window. He's spent the last half hour watching farmland go past. Yes, it's as boring as he remembers. "Do you think Stark will win? Off the record," he adds quickly, because he'd rather hear Coulson's opinion than publish a story. (He's never going to tell his editor about this. Or Nat. One of them would kill him for wasting an opportunity; the other would make him suffer first.)

"Initially, I thought he had a good chance." Coulson sighs and saves his work. "But at every public appearance, Tony shares more of his opinions and he becomes a less attractive bet for contributors."

"But there's a wider demographic showing up to listen to him. That's got to mean something."

"It means he puts on a good show. He's entertaining. How many people vote for entertaining?"

Coulson looks tired. His jaw is tense and there are shadows under his eyes. It makes Clint want to do the impossible, to somehow make this easier. "There's a reason there's two busloads of reporters following him, you know."

"Because Tony was tabloid fodder before he ran for office?"

"Because everyone wants to be here. Half of the stories being written won't be published, but everyone wants to say they saw the campaign up close, that they remember when Stark first ran." Clint's reported enough campaigns to know the drill, and it's obvious that this campaign is different. This candidate is different. "No matter what the polls say, people are excited to be around Stark. He could be a good president."

"He'd be an excellent president," Coulson says with reassuring certainty. "We just have to get him there."

"You have to get him here," Clint says. "I'm only here to write the story when it happens."

***

Campaigns don't get easier as they go. It becomes an insular, nomadic group roaming the countryside, and the frustration of close quarters starts to wear on everyone. Clint wakes at midnight to the sound of someone coughing above him and someone snoring in the next room, and decides 3am might be a great time for a walk.

The only place within easy walking distance is a gas station so Clint just wanders around the back of the motel instead. There's an old garage down a gravel road, and there's enough moonlight for Clint to find his way.

It's only when he gets closer that he sees one of the doors is ajar. When he peeks into the darkness, he sees the red glow of a cigarette. Clint wasn't looking for company. He steps back and trips, and grabs at the door to keep his balance. The door swings wide open under his palm and he falls backwards.

Coulson's voice calls out of the darkness. "You okay?"

Clint stays stretched out on the ground. He's winded, but he's not hurt. Rubbing a hand over his face, he says, "Yep. I'm good."

There are soft footsteps coming nearer, and then Clint looks up to see Coulson standing over him, holding out a hand. He looks washed out in the moonlight, skin too pale and eyes too dark, the red ember of the cigarette held between his lips. He helps Clint to his feet without a joke at Clint's expense.

"I'm usually more coordinated," Clint says, reluctantly letting go of Coulson's hand.

"I've seen you walk into the breakfast tables before coffee," Coulson replies. He ashes his cigarette, and Clint stares at the practiced movement of his long, elegant fingers.

"You smoke?" Clint asks because he has to say something. He can't just stand in the dark staring at Coulson and imaging those hands on his skin.

"I quit four years ago." Coulson takes one more heavy drag, and the end glows red. "Stark is bad for my health."

Clint should have a smartmouthed reply to that. He should know something to say but his brain is not cooperating. His brain keeps pointing out things like it's the middle of the night and no one else is awake. "No one would see," Clint says as Coulson takes one last drag and drops the cigarette. He stubs it with his foot, then picks up the butt and slides it into his pocket.

At least Coulson doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "That's not the point," Coulson says.

Clint takes a step closer, a step further into the shadows of the garage. "Then what is?"

"It's unprofessional." Coulson's mouth forms a tiny frown and he takes a step backwards. A step away from Clint, a step further out of sight. "We already have Tony's past to deal with, this campaign doesn't need any more scandals."

"But if you don't tell anyone and I don't tell anyone…"

"I want to be able to honestly say that I never slept with a member of the press. That there was no extortion for sex, no favors promised in return. This quickly becomes seedy if it gets reported."

Clint gets it, he does. He knows how ugly these stories get, how easily they can be twisted and ruin reputations. Still, he says, "But making out would be okay, right? Junior High style, kissing and hands above the waist."

Coulson laughs. "This is such a bad idea," he says warmly. He snags a finger in the neckline of Clint's t-shirt and pulls him into the darkness.

"It's three in the morning," Clint replies, stepping in until they're chest to chest and Coulson's hands settle on his shoulders. "There's no good ideas at three a.m."

***

It doesn't become a habit. It's not regular enough to be called that. There are days when Clint only sees Coulson in the SUV, completely professional. Then there are the occasional nights when they run into each other in the small hours of the morning. Coulson usually finds an out of the way corner where they won't be found. (Not either of their rooms, not anywhere with a bed, not anywhere that would make it too easy to get carried away.)

It's become a point of honor that they're both maintaining these ridiculous rules. Hands run through hair and curve around cheeks, they scrape down a neck or dig into shoulders, but they stay above the belt. There's shallow kisses and deep kisses, lewd dirty kisses that echo loudly in supply closet and make Clint's toes curl in his boots. There's even occasional kisses along jaws and down necks, but never past collars and never anything that will leave a mark.

It leaves Clint yawning his way through the next day. It's an obvious consequence of not getting back to his room until nearly five, and needing a hot shower and some dedicated alone time before he could possibly fall asleep. Coulson doesn't yawn but he does end up taking quick naps in the back of the SUV, head lolling to one side and mouth softly parted.

***

When Clint can't sleep, he prowls around that night's motel. He's not obvious enough to walk by Coulson's room -- there's always a cluster of staffer rooms away from the press, and Clint pays attention to which one Coulson walks into -- but he spends a good deal of time hanging around the ice machines or the stairways, and walking around the back of the building.

Sometimes he's lucky enough to run into Coulson, to sneak a make out session while everyone else is sleeping. Tonight, he runs into Stark. He's wearing a baseball cap and a black Iron Maiden tour t-shirt, and the fluorescent lights aren't doing him any favors. He looks older than his 42 years, looks pale and haggard in the harsh lighting. He's staring at his phone, typing with one hand and using the other to rub his palm low on his left side.

Everyone knows the story. Kidnapped by terrorists in Afghanistan, kidneys injured in the attack, held captive for nearly three months and lived on a homemade dialysis machine. It's an amazing story and Stark's told it to everyone who asked, but it's easy to forget it when faced with all that Tony Stark charisma. Look at him and you see playboy billionaire, but right now he looks tired and stressed, just another middle aged guy with aches and pains.

"Oh, hey," Stark says, looking up from his phone while Clint's thinking about creeping backwards, "it's you. Coulson's favorite reporter."

"I'm not his favorite," Clint says, shrugging. He walks over and leans on the ice machine, crossing his arms. "I asked."

"He lets you ride in the car. You're his favorite," Stark says, tapping on his phone again. "Which is saying something because the only person Coulson likes is Pepper, and everyone likes Pepper."

Clint shrugs.

"Talkative, aren't you?" Stark mocks. "Must be what Coulson sees in you. He's certainly complained enough about me talking. Either that or the contractors bribery thing. He liked that story."

"Most candidates wouldn't bitch about their campaign manager to the press," Clint says because it's easier than wondering when Coulson read that piece and exactly what he thought of it.

Stark pulls a face. "You wouldn't be travelling with Coulson if he didn't think you were trustworthy. And if you want to quote me out of context, go ahead. Won't be the first time, won't be the last."

"I'd rather leave the unsubstantiated gossip to TMZ," Clint says and Stark barks out a laugh.

"Okay, that deserves a printable answer. Ask me a question, anything. On the record."

Clint yawns and rubs his eyes. It's too late to come up with anything clever. All the standard campaign questions have already been asked, with neat soundbytes delivered. "Do you think you'll run for a second term?"

"I haven't won the first one yet."

"Assuming you do," Clint says. His gut instincts aren't reliable but his vision is excellent, and he's seen the growing crowds. "Would you run for a second term?"

"Most sitting presidents do. Four years isn't a lot of time to make serious changes, so yeah, I think I'll run again." Stark raises an eyebrow at him. "How are you going to use that quote in a story?"

Clint shrugs again. "Don't know. But it's better than asking why you're running. 'We can do better' is a great campaign motto but a dull story."

"You think it's dull?" Stark scoffs.

"I think the wording has been through a lot of market research and focus groups. It's not a bad catchphrase," Clint allows, eyeing the vending machine at the other end of the hallway. Hmm. He might get some Funyuns.

"Of course it's been through market research. That's how you make sure you're not accidentally offending people, but that doesn't mean it's not a genuine reason to run."

Clint's wondering if he should get something sweet as well. It's the middle of the night and he's not at his sharpest. "Sure, genuine reason. Rich guy got a nasty shock and decided to try to fix the world. It's a story that sells," he says and then remembers that he's speaking to the candidate. Brutal honesty is how you lose interview privileges and your editor gets asked to send a replacement. He stares at Stark but Stark grins like he's in the middle of a press conference.

"I considered drinking my problems away but my only functioning kidney is a transplant and I promised Pep I'd follow doctor's orders. So fixing the entire country was the next best option."

"Do you think you can?" Clint's seen the crowds. By the end of an appearance, they believe in Stark. Clint's too much of a realist to let himself believe in politicians. "No political experience. No connections with the people you'll need to approve bills."

"I'm a certified genius," Stark says as if intelligence is as important as networking on the Hill. "I listen to smart people. Sometimes I even follow their advice. And I've got enough experience. Have you ever tried to get experimental funding through a corporate board, because I've fought that battle many times and it always comes down to convincing them it's worth trying. I figure most of the job will be doing the same to Senate, saying here's an idea I think will work, how can we test it? How do we do it if it works? You have to convince people the rewards are worth the risks."

***

"I want to take you out," Coulson murmurs against Clint's neck. His breath is warm on Clint's skin, his chest pressed firmly against Clint's. It's not the sauciest dirty talk Clint's ever heard, but he can work with it.

Clint slides his hands along Coulson's shoulders, feeling the broad strength. "Yeah? Anywhere in particular?"

"Anywhere. A nice meal and take you home," Coulson says. "Take you to bed and get you out of these clothes."

Clint's hips give a little involuntary hitch. With all of this high school making out, he tries to keep the dry humping to a minimum, but that's pretty hard when Coulson sounds so wrecked by the mere idea of getting naked in bed.

He leans back a little, puts some space between their bodies. "Great idea, if not for, you know, everything."

Coulson is flushed and bright eyed. He drags a hand across his forehead and finally steps back. "I'm rethinking my position on illicit sexual relations with members of the press."

"No, you're not," Clint replies easily.

"I could be," Coulson says, sounding like he doesn't believe it either.

***

Clint actually has to argue with his editor to stay until the election. Given the polling numbers, the outcome is looking too certain for any surprising, last minute stories. Clint gets permission to stay but has to submit a stupid feature story about the experience of following Stark's campaign tour. He writes about the routine, about meals with the same faces, about the Metallica blasting from Stark's coach. He glosses over the fact that he hasn't travelled with the other reporters for weeks now.

He doesn't mention Coulson at all, and then has to go through and make sure he isn't mentioning any of the other staffers by name either.

The whole thing is honestly more human interest that his stories usually skew to, but it's worth it to keep sitting in the SUV, heading towards California.

Given the polling numbers, you'd think Coulson would be feeling good about Election Day, but if anything, he gets wound tighter as it approaches.

The wry smiles that Clint loves, those have all but disappeared. Now Coulson spends hours in the back seat reading his tablet and making notes, scowling at each new set of polling figures. Sometimes he huffs out through his nose, like a bull about to gore a matador.

"Come on," Clint says, "the numbers can't be that bad."

Coulson turns a glare on him. It's intense and more than a little hot, but Clint misses the smiles and dorky jokes. "He polled 37."

"In what demographic?" Clint demands because no way does that match the numbers he's seen published.

"Self identified Republicans." Coulson rubs at the bridge of his nose. "He's going to win by a landslide."

Clint blinks. "Shouldn't that be, um, good news?"

"A landslide," Coulson repeats. "Can you imagine Tony's ego if that happens?"

Before Clint can point out that Coulson is, in fact, partly responsible for this overachieving success, Coulson's phone trills. It's a soft, discreet ring and Coulson fishes it out of his jacket's inside pocket.

"Phil Coulson," he says, and then, "Yes, there's a little time left in Denver." As he speaks, Coulson pulls up calendars, spreadsheets and route maps. "We may be able to work another appearance into his schedule."

Clint tunes out the rest of the phone call, watching the monotonous farmland outside. He doesn't need to listen to know that Coulson will be planning adjustments and contingencies, getting all the details sorted before emailing the entire thing to Stark. Coulson has kept this entire campaign running like a well oiled machine, no matter what he may imply about his feelings towards Stark.

Between Coulson's efficient organisation and Stark's brilliance and natural showmanship, the nation never stood a chance.

***

Most candidate headquarters are set up in a town hall somewhere: some booze, some balloons, and a loud PA system so the victory -- or concession -- speech can be heard by everyone. There's drinking in celebration or commiseration, and a lot of tired, underpaid staff and volunteers letting their hair down once the final tally is in.

Stark does things a little differently. It's at his mansion in Malibu. The entire place is decked out with glitter and lights, a fog machine and swathes of material hanging across the ceiling. There are multiple bars set up in the corners of rooms, top shelf spirits flung and twirled into fancy cocktails. People are already in the pool and the Black Eyed Peas are playing from the upstairs balcony. Not on some fantastic sound system. No, they're playing live and the kids crowded outside are bouncing and singing along.

Clint hasn't been to a party like this… ever. It looks like something out of an MTV song clip, the wild glamorous parties that never reflect real life.

Stark had started the night with a quick announcement. "Just one more speech, guys. I want to say thanks to everyone for your hard work but since there's literally nothing any of us can do now, the bar is open! Let's get this party started!"

It's a good party and Clint could be out there enjoying it, but instead he's wandering through corridors of bedrooms trying to find the actual campaign offices. So far, he's found a dozen bedrooms with ensuites, and a kitchen so high tech and stainless steel it belongs on a spaceship. Eventually he tries the garages downstairs and finds Coulson sitting on a couch, laptop open. His jacket is laid neatly over the back of the couch, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and his tie loosened from his collar.

"Hey," Clint says and it echoes through the dark, concrete space. It must be solid concrete. The noise from upstairs can barely be heard here. "Is this a private party or can anyone join?"

Coulson looks up and his tired eyes soften. "I can't promise excitement. I'm watching the numbers get reported."

"Landslide?" Clint asks cheekily.

"They haven't called it yet but it's only a matter of time."

"So you're just avoiding the party and watching the news?" Clint sits down on the other end of the sofa. It's a huge black leather thing, soft and squishy, but he sits close enough to touch Coulson. "Want to make out?"

Coulson frowns at his laptop and then moves it to the floor. He tilts the screen back so he can read it from the couch if he has to. "We should talk about that." Coulson says it calmly, like it's no big deal, but those words have never brought good things.

"I'm willing to negotiate on the hands above the waist rule."

"Tony's going to win. That's four years. He'll probably win re-election, so that's eight years. Two months of furtively making out has almost killed me. Eight years is out the question."

Clint rubs a hand across his face, closing his eyes for a moment. Coulson isn't wrong. He's been getting flashbacks to fifteen, perpetually horny and mildly frustrated, and Clint couldn't do this for eight years. He would have tried but it probably would have ended in a spectacular crash and burn.

Clint swallows and keeps his tone light. "How about we bring in election night with a bang and make a clean break of it tomorrow?"

"That depends," Coulson says "on how you feel about sleeping with a political consultant."

Clint grins and waves a hand across his own chest. "I live in Washington. If I refused to sleep with anyone involved in politics, it would just be me and my right hand."

There's a promising heat in Coulson's gaze. Clint leans forwards, trailing fingers across Coulson's knee and lightly up the inside of his slacks.

"We could lock the door," Clint says, and Coulson looks from Clint's mouth to the closed door and back again. "It's a big couch."

Of course, that's the moment that Coulson's laptop gives an irritating beep. They both glance over at it, and then Coulson's phone chimes a message. And another one. And then it vibrates as someone calls.

Clint sneers at the interrupting laptop. "Election results?"

"Yeah," Coulson says, reading his phone as it gives another chime. "I need to go see Tony about a new job."

Clint spreads his arms across the back of the couch, showing off his best features. "You coming back?"

"This could take a while," Coulson says regretfully. After everything, Clint feels like he at least deserves a goodbye kiss, but Coulson's unplugging his laptop and gathering his jacket. "I'll call you."

"You don't have my number."

"Of course I do," Coulson replies as if he has contact details for every member of the press on this campaign. Then again, knowing Coulson and his insistence on details, he might. "Don't leave the party and I'll find you once this is done."

"Sir, yes, sir," Clint replies sarcastically. He throws in the world's saddest excuse for a salute as well. Coulson rolls his eyes but he also leans down and presses a warm, chaste kiss to Clint's lips, so Clint counts it as a win.

***

Clint finds a seat outside and spends most of the night listening to the DJ play dance music and watching everyone drink a lot. Like, a heck of a lot. There may be alcohol poisoning in some of these kids' futures. At the very least, there will be horrible hangovers tomorrow.

The dancing has devolved into drunken swaying or inhibition-free grinding, but it's funny to watch. Clint's waiting to see who falls over first -- he's betting the weedy blond guy in the Barenaked Ladies t-shirt -- when there's a sudden shadow over his shoulder.

When he looks up, there's Coulson looking vaguely judgmental. "I thought you were going to call?" Clint says.

"I did," Coulson replies loudly, battling to be heard over the music. "Come inside?"

"Sure," Clint says and nods for good measure. He checks his phone on the way in, and there's three missed calls from a number he quickly saves. He follows Coulson down a corridor, round a corner, and into a small, secluded sitting room. Well, small by Stark standards, so still bigger than any room in Clint's apartment.

Coulson closes the door behind them. "After this, I'll be changing jobs," he says.

No point being a campaign manager when there's no campaign to run. "Chief of Staff?"

Coulson gives Clint a wryly amused look. "No."

"Seriously? After running this campaign? How the hell did Stark not offer you the job?"

"He offered," Coulson clarifies, pleased, "But I promised Pepper I'd get him elected. I did not promise eight years of watching over Tony's shoulder."

"So the new job?"

"Back to being an independent political consultant." Coulson glances over at the pair of armchairs, but he stays standing. "Full disclosure, I may still end up doing some work for Tony, but I won't be White House staff."

Clints never been called slow on the uptake. "And as an independent consultant, what's your stance on dating reporters?"

"I'll date whoever the hell I want to." Coulson slides his hands around Clint's waist, smoothing his palms over Clint's sides. "How do you feel about dinner on Friday?"

Clint grins. "How do you feel about breakfast on Wednesday?" Clint counters and Coulson gives him a mildly confused look. "I mean, 2 a.m. is a little early for breakfast, but I'm sure we could find somewhere. I think we passed a 24 hour Starbucks getting here."

Coulson raises a judgemental eyebrow. "First date at Starbucks?"

"If you can find something better that's open, I'm all ears."

"There's a 24 hour diner. They do good chicken and waffles."

"You know," Clint says, starting to grin. "Waffles sound good."

***

It's a bitterly cold day. Clint can feel the icy wind cut right through his coat. He hides his bare hands in his pockets and make a mental note to buy gloves. "Whose bright idea was it to hold an outdoor ceremony in January?"

"Thank the Twentieth Amendment," Coulson murmurs beside him. They're sitting in the middle of the crowd, anonymous and too far away to have to talk to Stark, which is good for Coulson. But right now Clint could be curled up in bed, warm and sleeping. "Are you cold?"

"No," Clint replies snidely, looking at Coulson wrapped up warm in his coat, scarf and gloves, and thinking he's got to remember where he left his scarf. Or buy one when he replaces his lost gloves. This is why Clint hates winter. "The shivering is a performance choice."

Of course, he wishes Stark the best. Clint's proud of the guy and a little curious to see what he'll achieve as President. He just feels that a morning that started with Coulson's hands sliding over his skin shouldn't end in him freezing to death. (Not that Clint has any complaints about this morning. Coulson's sleepy smile and wandering hands are a nice way to wake up, and he's definitely not complaining about the focused blowjob that followed. Or jerking Coulson off in the shower afterwards, making out until the water went cold. He's just saying he could have blown off work and spent the day hanging around Coulson's apartment, watching Dog Cops, and being warm.)

When Stark stands up, there's a roar from the crowd. It's like being at a damn concert. Stark flashes the victory sign at the cameras and grins, drinking it all up. 

Stark takes a deep breath and turns his attention to the Chief Justice, and something soft is pressed into Clint's hand. He glances over to see Coulson passing him a burgundy scarf. It looks as thick as the navy scarf Coulson's wearing. "You brought a back up scarf?" Clint asks, pulling it on quickly.

Coulson gives a small smile. "You forget yours."

"Any chance of gloves?"

"I thought you found your gloves?"

"I lost them again," Clint says as Stark is solemnly sworn in. The bugles and the drums start to play, and Stark pulls out his phone and starts taking selfies with the crowd behind him. "That's going straight on Twitter, you know."

Coulson's smile is ridiculously smug. "But it's not my problem anymore."


End file.
